Hot Wax
by afullmargin
Summary: Explicit. M/M. Slowly, they've begun to enter each other's worlds and create one of their own in the bedroom.


**Rating**: Explicit

**Notes**: I haven't written wax play in ages and sort of got struck by this pwp. Sorry.

**Disclaimer**: This is a work of fictional parody in no way intended to infringe upon the rights of any individual or corporate entity. Any and all characters or celebrity personae belong to their rightful owners. Absolutely no money has or will be gained from this work. Please do not publicly link, repost or redistribute without letting me know first.

**Written**: 3/2013

* * *

They took turns invading each other's spaces – took turns looking out of place, for the sake of having a shared something… even if it was only their mutual awkwardness.

Lestrade was showing his face more frequently in the club off days, hanging close by the only reason he'd been invited at all in a move that most present saw as a futile grab at upward mobility.

Mycroft had been seen on numerous occasions taking dinner at a little pub without a security escort save for his increasingly present companion grinning at him over pair of shepherd's pies and pints as they made quiet small talk.

Private places, too, had become shared explorations. No longer did Mycroft sneer at a pair of dirty socks on the floor or comment about the noise outside when he opened a window at his lover's flat.

And the chambers Greg once thought of as cold, nearly sterile, had begun to show their true warmth. Little touches of color, soft arrangements of dark woods and pale flowers, porcelain and lace. The first time they shared Mycroft's antique bed he'd groused that it made him feel like he was about to fuck royalty. Before long, it was practically a second home smelling of sweet lavender and spice. It was a place where he couldn't be the lonely detective inspector because they were lonely together. Because he didn't have to be the responsible one.

Mycroft's hands became those of an artist, Lestrade's body a canvas stretched across his bed and squirming against silk ropes. He was blindfolded this time, excited by each tap of bare feet against the floor as his lover approached.

"You've been naughty, Gregory," the familiar voice cooed with a somehow authoritative clip.

A reflexive, nearly nervous, laugh slipped out and he tugged his right wrist tighter to feel the knot cinch against his skin. "I… I don't know what you're talking about…"

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Mycroft retrieved a slender white paraffin candle from his bedside table and turned toward his lover. "Mmm… those dirty, filthy lies…" he teased, dragging the cool tip across his shoulders – just enough to leave him wondering what it was as the wick tickled his neck. "You cancelled our date last week two hours late."

It was true, but he had his reasons. "There was a case…" he replied curtly, "…as you know."

"Ahh, yes… certain people, who shall remain nameless, continuing to be bothersome." He retrieved a monogramed lighter and casually lit the candle, watching the flame dance along the tip.

Most men in his position wouldn't push their luck, but Greg knew exactly what he was getting into tangling with Mycroft Holmes… and he craved it. Being controlled, even being punished. "Oh, you're smoking again now? Must be a hell of a mess to clean up after him again…"

Mycroft tilted the candle, letting the first hot bead drip onto his lover's shoulder, barely streaking down the taut muscle as he let out a dull hiss. "Try again, Gregory."

"God…" he groaned, closing his eyes tight behind the lacy black sleep mask as another warm drop hit his skin.

"I prefer 'Sir'," Mycroft responded with a wry smirk, twisting his wrist to drizzle a thin line down his spine.

Greg laughed, his body tightening with the sensation as the wax got warmer with each drip. When he felt the slow drips stop, he let out an even softer chuckle. "Oooh, you'll have to do more than that, Madam."

Lighting a thick pillar candle off his burning taper, Mycroft had to force himself not to chuckle at the insult – he was used to them at this phase in the game, the detective playing tough until he was unable to be anything but. Without warning, he slapped Greg's hip with a delightful snap of skin against skin – leaving a bright pink print behind to match the throb in his fingers. "Manners, boy."

Gritting his teeth, he couldn't hold back his yelp soon enough but took the lick well. With another warm dribble in the center of his back he hissed; "Yes'm…"

It'd be too easy to swat him again, playing right into his tease, so Mycroft bit back his instinct and casually said; "I'm a bit out of practice, but my cane is still in the cupboard if you require correction."

Lestrade took a deep breath, all too easily remembering the sting of the thin rattan laying stripes across his ass. It'd taken two days to sit down without flinching and he had been sure to mention an incident involving a slippery staircase to ensure Donovan didn't have much to say about it. Much. "Apologies," he groaned feeling the flame close to his skin, the beads turning into small rivulets dripping out over his lower back; "Sir."

"Better." The word came out softly, mingling with the rewarding touch of fingers tracing the curve of his ass followed by the warm wax as though painting him. "I think I'm a reasonable man, Gregory, I understand the demands of your position." He paused, returning the candle to its holder before turning his attentions back to his lover. "But I do expect a certain amount of consideration."

"Y… yes…" Greg breathed heavily, attempting to shift toward the teasing touch but succeeding only in pulling the knots at his wrists tighter. "I should have called straight away."

"You should have." The slow stroke of his fingers didn't pause, working their way down over his sac before trailing back up to the cleft of his ass and gingerly spreading him open. "I do worry."

"You don't," he groaned, biting into his lower lip when a thick finger brushed against his opening. It was one of the perks of being involved with someone whose work was even more consuming than his own – they didn't worry, they knew all too well what a missed date or late call meant.

Letting himself give in, Mycroft pushed his middle finger slowly inside him – relishing the eager moan in return. "I do wonder," he replied, stroking slow but steadily; "especially when my brother and his doctor are involved."

Shuddering, Greg's body tugged the silk until it cut against him – responding to each touch as though it were the first. "Don't…" he gasped, letting a low moan slip when a second finger stretched him wider. "Don't mention them."

"Of course."

In these moments, he'd swear he could hear the clock knocking as intensely as he could feel the slide of Mycroft's hand over his back while he picked off the cooled wax – taking small hairs with it and leaving a warm spot behind. When he couldn't take the slow pleasure anymore, he begged; "Please? Please, Sir?"

He chuckled, peeling back a long stripe of white. "You'll have to be more specific than that, I'm afraid."

Greg whined, losing the fight to even pretend he held authority in that bedroom. When the peel stopped, the bed shifted and suddenly he was empty again. He begged in a hoarse whisper; "Fuck me."

"Close…" Mycroft teased, kneeling at the end of the bed. "I'll let you try again."

Mycroft's thighs pushed tight against his and he asked loudly; "Please, Sir, please fuck me…" flushing hot across his face and down his bare chest. The humiliation of being stripped down to basic desires aroused him even more than the pleasure of being forced down against the bed, Mycroft's weight heavy on his back as he thrust deep inside him. He couldn't explain why it was so easy to just let go and be teased, to yank helplessly at his bonds and just exist in the moment.

"Good boy…" Mycroft murmured, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck as he allowed himself to thrust eagerly, fingers digging into the detective's strong shoulders.

"Oh… God…" he moaned, lowering his head against the mattress. "Yes… fuck…"

"Such language…" he purred, one hand leaving Greg's shoulder and dragging down to his hip before cutting across to grasp his cock tight around the base. "You kiss your mum with that mouth?"

He can hear the slight tremor in Mycroft's voice, driving him even harder as the normally reserved man begins to come unraveled just for him. It was the ultimate payoff – knowing that at the end they'd both be satisfied and relaxed… shades of the men that the outside world saw. "I kiss you," he grunted, bucking back as best he could; "Sir."

Relaxing into the rhythm, Mycroft lets himself laugh before coupling his strokes to the hard thrusts. "You'd better."

Warm heat spread inside him, the only sign Mycroft tipped over the edge save for a soft moan against his ear, and gradual slowing. "Yes…" he panted, flushing even hotter when Mycroft's cock hilted deep inside him and stopped; "God…"

"Come for me…" he ordered in a husky whisper, pushing back up on his weak knees as he stroked his lover hard and fast.

"Uh… huh…" Greg grunted in return, each slight shift of Mycroft's weight on the mattress registering as pure pleasure while he leaned over toward the stand. It didn't register until he felt a large, hot flash winding down his shoulders that there had been a second candle. "Fuck!" He cried, his hips tugging hard enough to rattle the heavy frame he was tied to as Mycroft's grip tightened.

"So close…" he murmured, drizzling the last of the pillar's pooled wax across the dip in Greg's back. "Give in, Gregory… I know you want to."

He didn't need to hear the words for Mycroft's soft voice to push him hard over the edge – jolting against the silk as he came. "Fuck… god… yes…"

Withdrawing from him only a moment, Mycroft slid off the edge of the bed and pulled loose the knots holding his feet and then one wrist as he curled back onto the bed beside him. "Much better," he smiled, brushing a kiss across Greg's sweaty temple; "lovely."

Shaking, Lestrade let himself relax against his lover and turned to accept a kiss on the lips as his blindfold was removed. "Yeah?" He breathed, lips stretching in an awkwardly exhausted smirk. "Good?"

"Always."

Untying the last knot himself, Greg returned quickly to rest his head in the crook of Mycroft's shoulder – content to simply exist in the long moment. "That was… different. Nice."

"I thought so," he chuckled under his breath, idly tracing Greg's hip. "Not too hot?"

"No… no…" he shook his head, "good."

"Good."

Slowly, they were integrating into each other's worlds, into each other. At least for fleeting moments reined in before they could burn each other out. It wasn't a sweeping romance or an adventure, but it was nice.


End file.
